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by 30xf



Series: 201 Days Of X Files [69]
Category: The X-Files
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-15
Updated: 2016-06-15
Packaged: 2018-07-15 07:21:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7213189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/30xf/pseuds/30xf





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"Ugh, I think I'm dying," is the last thing I say to Mulder on the phone. Honestly, I'm a doctor and I should have a more concise description of why I'm not going in to work today, but that got my point across. I didn't tell him that I was calling him from where I was lying on the bathroom floor, but I was ready to pull that out if he protested my absence in any way. It was the first time I've ever used the phone located beside my toilet, and I certainly hope it's the last.

I thank my past self yet again for keeping a clean house as I lay my face on the cool bathroom tiles. I've been in here most of the night, deciding somewhere along the way that making the sprint from my bed to the toilet to throw up was going to kill me in some way--most likely with my tripping over Queequeg, who insisted on making the journey with me every time, even though it confused him.

Perplexed as he was, he kept watch over me all night, and continues to do so. He walks around me, careful not to step on me. Sniffing here and there, and occasionally nudging at me to see if I'm better enough to pet him yet. Once he's fully examined me, he sits with his butt up against me, just looking off into the distance. He repeats the process every half hour or so. Except when I move to throw up. That appears to freak him out, despite the number of times he's hacked things up on various floors of this apartment. 

About an hour after I call Mulder, I finally feel well enough to get myself into an upright position. I haven't thrown up since before I made the call, but I'm far from risking putting any food in my body. I imagine Queequeg is probably pretty hungry by now though. I also haven't managed to get him outside for his morning walk, but with the way I feel now, he can do his business wherever he wants, and I'll just clean it up when I feel better.

I manage to get the poor dog some food before collapsing on the couch. He nibbles at it for a minute, before coming back to stand guard over me. An unknown amount of time passes before I hear a knock at the door. It doesn't even occur to me to answer it. I'm not sure if I could make it there if I tried. The phone rings a minute later and I do manage to sit up and grab it off the table before falling back onto the couch. I click the button to answer it and say something I hope sounds like "Hello?"

"Scully, it's me. Are you okay?"

"I think I'm dying," I tell him, and only vaguely remember already telling him that part.

"I'm at the door. I'm gonna use my key to come in, okay?"

I don't even answer, I simply hang up. In truth, I'd rather he not see me this way. I idly wonder if I've got vomit anywhere on me, and if I at least swished some mouth wash after my last bout of nausea. Queequeg barks when he hears the door opening, but instead of running to it, he jumps up on me. 

He growls at Mulder as he approaches me, but stops when I show no visible signs of distress. He lays one cold hand on my forehead for a moment, causing me to frown at him, before declaring, "You look like shit."

As bad as I feel, I manage to give him the finger, and he chuckles. "I feel like shit," I tell him, pulling my robe tighter around me to combat the slight chill he's let into the room.

"Get down," he tells Queequeg, and the dog whines a little before getting to the floor. Even though they don't get along, Queequeg seems to understand that now that Mulder's here, he's free to take a dinner break, and heads to the kitchen to finish his food. "For a minute there after you called me I wasn't sure if you were skipping out on work to avoid the meeting with Skinner," he muses, taking a seat on the coffee table.

I open one eye and stare at him. "Shit...I forgot about the meeting," I sigh. "Was he pissed?"

"He didn't seem to be," Mulder tells me, taking off his jacket and throwing it into the nearby chair. "Honestly, I think he might still feel kind of awkward around you."

"Just me?" I ask, my feelings a little hurt as I breathe through another wave of nausea.

"Well, you were pretty quick to suspect him of killing that woman," he tells me as he takes the blanket from the back of the couch and covers me with it.

"I was just following the evidence," I start to defend myself, but my nausea overtakes me. I throw off the blanket and make a run for the bathroom. I should be humiliated to hear Mulder's footsteps approach as I'm hunched over the toilet, but I don't even care at this point.

"Have you eaten or drank anything today?" he asks between dry heaves.

I shake my head as I collapse against the wall, cold sweat covering my entire body. "I had dinner with you last night. That was the last thing I had."

"Food poisoning?" he muses as he hands me a wet wash cloth and sits on the edge of the tub.

I shake my head, trying not to picture the huge plate of food I devoured less than twelve hours ago. "We ate the same thing. My mom had the flu last week," I tell him, laying the cloth over my face before settling it on the back of my neck. "I must have caught it."

Mulder nods and holds a hand out to me. "Let's get you to bed. You look like you could use some sleep."

I let him help me up, all the while wondering if straying too far from the bathroom is a good idea. When we reach the hallway, I resist the dark bedroom. I feel like hell, but I want to feel better. And the fresh air and sunshine of the living room seems more conducive to that. Thankfully, Mulder gets this message from my sleepy gaze towards the couch and guides me there. He settles me in, covering me with the blanket again. I barely hear him tell me he's going to the store to get me some ginger ale before I drift off.

 

The next time I open my eyes, late afternoon sun fills the room. There is a glass of ginger ale on the coffee table, and the small bathroom garbage can is on the floor by my head. I hear a small sigh, and look to find Queequeg curled up at my feet, sound asleep. I'm just about to call for Mulder, when I notice the paper by the ginger ale. With considerable effort, I reach for it, and have to lay back and catch my breath before reading it. It's a note from Mulder, telling me he walked my 'little rat of a dog', who insisted on doing his business while staring right at him. It also tells me he gave him five treats before he left because he wasn't sure how many he was supposed to have. The note assures me the ginger ale is not diet, because I'm sick and I need the calories. I am instructed to drink as much of it as I can keep down, and to sleep when I'm not drinking. The note says he's gone back to work for a bit, but he'll check on me after, and he'll bring chicken soup and whatever medicine the pharmacist recommends. And he says he'll cover for me with Skinner.

With all my worries apparently taken care of, I curl back up under the blanket and close my eyes. My father would have called Mulder 'a good egg'. My mother would probably refer to him as 'a keeper'. I'm just glad he's my partner. And my friend.


End file.
